![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
wordwhacker.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
tamingthemuseTitle: Her Shaking Hands
Fandom: Original
Prompt: 216 - Heavy hearted AND September inanimate object challenge
Word Count: 1058
Rating: G
I know that it’s morning when the light breaks in on my resting place, all at once and accompanied by the deafening roar of the drawer sliding out and into position. In the past she has dwelled over the selection, pursing her pink lips, her perfume coiling around us and nestling invisibly in the fibres of the fabric that houses us all. We all smell like her now, or feel that we do; we share an intimacy with her that few others have. She has always passed me by, in the end. I have never been surprised. When she chooses my mate and I, it will be with a purpose in mind, and it will be done quickly.
The light has only just hit us this morning when she reaches in and closes her fingers around me, the pads gently prising me by the pearl out of my nestled folds of cushion. She slides my pin through a delicate hole in her left ear, clipping me firmly in place. Today. Today will be the last for either myself of my counterpart, which she is fastening to her right ear. For that one of us it will be a worthy end, a fulfilled promise. And for the other, usefulness will come to an end.
She finishes dressing and places a briefcase on the hotel bed beside her. It is filled with documents which she skims again, though I have heard the pages rustling every morning, heard the clasp come undone, heard the bed creek as she shifted her weight and read. Her hand is shaking today, just slightly. Her hands, which had been so sure as they fixed my counterpart and me into her ear lobes; she was a professional, the best in the business, which is why she had been entrusted with us to begin with. This little tremor would not be enough to stop her, though the nature of it was puzzling.
She replaced the papers and closed the briefcase, snapping it shut before placing it in her large luggage bag. When the mission was carried out she would be sending the luggage on a particular kind of holiday, one that it was never meant to return from. Perhaps the unused earring would be sent with it; perhaps it would be tucked away somewhere more personal, if she were to be stuck with a moment’s sentimentalism.
Outside – it was the first time I had seen it, and it was brighter than the lab where I was made, far brighter. The cool air frosted my metal parts, but she did not wear a hat or coverings on her ears; she had to look the part, a wealthy New England housewife, just a little impractical in the service of looking her best. It was not that far beyond her, perhaps; the qualities seemed so natural to her. She might have simply been a keen actor, but the way she tossed her hair, the way she tilted her head, they all spoke of genuine experience. She was a skilled actor because she really lived these things.
He met with her at noon; his hands were rough and slid into her hair with a swift, practiced motion, brushing by me. This embrace, too, was genuine. For the first time I felt fear – fear that I would not be the one to fulfill my destiny. Surely my sibling would be chosen instead. Her hands had shaken this morning, and this was why: he meant something to her. Against all odds, against everything she had been trained, he meant something. Sleep for him would be a mercy, a fate that he could eventually overcome in spite of the hardships it would bring – from the people she would bring him to. His end would not be in her hands.
The day drew on. She followed him, watched him move, and her hand slid up to her left ear and toyed with me, gently, as she thought. The movements were words in and of themselves: Conflict. Need. Duty. Cold. Blood pulsed through her, and I felt the rising beat of her heart as she furiously wrestled with these things. It was not decided yet; I might yet be useful. If she held true to herself. If she did not let herself become heavy hearted.
Then she seemed to decide.
She slid her fingers into his hair, pulled him near, and whispered: “Take me home with you.”
I would be the forgotten one.
He brought her with him, and they talked, in low tones. She encouraged him to drink as she made herself comfortable, coaxed his secrets out of him. He did not suspect her, even as he sealed his fate with every damning word. Yes, they would need him alive. He would talk; he could be convinced to talk. Her hand slipped up to her other ear and I knew that would be the end.
And then he said it. The name she had been waiting for: the confirmation that it was all a rouse, an elaborate playing along. He was not the source. He was planting a red herring. His knowledge was spent. He thought that he had duped her, but her heart beat fast. She played along, but that sense of the genuine left her. Now she was acting. But her hands were shaking. He knew who she was, then, and he couldn’t be allowed to live. That was the plan. And that meant –
“Do you mind if I get changed into something a little more comfortable?”
“I was hoping you’d say that.”
She slipped away from him; I felt the smile on her face. She stood up and turned away from him, taking a step or two away. Her hands went up to her hair, which she took down slowly, letting him watch, trying to still her shaking hands. “What are you in the mood for tonight?”
“I dunno, whatever strikes your fancy.”
Her fingers closed around my clasp, slid me free of the ear. With a tiny movement she twisted my base. A tiny click from within me told her that she had exactly five seconds.
She turned and tossed me toward him in a graceful arc before she ran. His eyes went wide with the realization of what I would bring to him, what I would take away. And then –
Fandom: Original
Prompt: 216 - Heavy hearted AND September inanimate object challenge
Word Count: 1058
Rating: G
I know that it’s morning when the light breaks in on my resting place, all at once and accompanied by the deafening roar of the drawer sliding out and into position. In the past she has dwelled over the selection, pursing her pink lips, her perfume coiling around us and nestling invisibly in the fibres of the fabric that houses us all. We all smell like her now, or feel that we do; we share an intimacy with her that few others have. She has always passed me by, in the end. I have never been surprised. When she chooses my mate and I, it will be with a purpose in mind, and it will be done quickly.
The light has only just hit us this morning when she reaches in and closes her fingers around me, the pads gently prising me by the pearl out of my nestled folds of cushion. She slides my pin through a delicate hole in her left ear, clipping me firmly in place. Today. Today will be the last for either myself of my counterpart, which she is fastening to her right ear. For that one of us it will be a worthy end, a fulfilled promise. And for the other, usefulness will come to an end.
She finishes dressing and places a briefcase on the hotel bed beside her. It is filled with documents which she skims again, though I have heard the pages rustling every morning, heard the clasp come undone, heard the bed creek as she shifted her weight and read. Her hand is shaking today, just slightly. Her hands, which had been so sure as they fixed my counterpart and me into her ear lobes; she was a professional, the best in the business, which is why she had been entrusted with us to begin with. This little tremor would not be enough to stop her, though the nature of it was puzzling.
She replaced the papers and closed the briefcase, snapping it shut before placing it in her large luggage bag. When the mission was carried out she would be sending the luggage on a particular kind of holiday, one that it was never meant to return from. Perhaps the unused earring would be sent with it; perhaps it would be tucked away somewhere more personal, if she were to be stuck with a moment’s sentimentalism.
Outside – it was the first time I had seen it, and it was brighter than the lab where I was made, far brighter. The cool air frosted my metal parts, but she did not wear a hat or coverings on her ears; she had to look the part, a wealthy New England housewife, just a little impractical in the service of looking her best. It was not that far beyond her, perhaps; the qualities seemed so natural to her. She might have simply been a keen actor, but the way she tossed her hair, the way she tilted her head, they all spoke of genuine experience. She was a skilled actor because she really lived these things.
He met with her at noon; his hands were rough and slid into her hair with a swift, practiced motion, brushing by me. This embrace, too, was genuine. For the first time I felt fear – fear that I would not be the one to fulfill my destiny. Surely my sibling would be chosen instead. Her hands had shaken this morning, and this was why: he meant something to her. Against all odds, against everything she had been trained, he meant something. Sleep for him would be a mercy, a fate that he could eventually overcome in spite of the hardships it would bring – from the people she would bring him to. His end would not be in her hands.
The day drew on. She followed him, watched him move, and her hand slid up to her left ear and toyed with me, gently, as she thought. The movements were words in and of themselves: Conflict. Need. Duty. Cold. Blood pulsed through her, and I felt the rising beat of her heart as she furiously wrestled with these things. It was not decided yet; I might yet be useful. If she held true to herself. If she did not let herself become heavy hearted.
Then she seemed to decide.
She slid her fingers into his hair, pulled him near, and whispered: “Take me home with you.”
I would be the forgotten one.
He brought her with him, and they talked, in low tones. She encouraged him to drink as she made herself comfortable, coaxed his secrets out of him. He did not suspect her, even as he sealed his fate with every damning word. Yes, they would need him alive. He would talk; he could be convinced to talk. Her hand slipped up to her other ear and I knew that would be the end.
And then he said it. The name she had been waiting for: the confirmation that it was all a rouse, an elaborate playing along. He was not the source. He was planting a red herring. His knowledge was spent. He thought that he had duped her, but her heart beat fast. She played along, but that sense of the genuine left her. Now she was acting. But her hands were shaking. He knew who she was, then, and he couldn’t be allowed to live. That was the plan. And that meant –
“Do you mind if I get changed into something a little more comfortable?”
“I was hoping you’d say that.”
She slipped away from him; I felt the smile on her face. She stood up and turned away from him, taking a step or two away. Her hands went up to her hair, which she took down slowly, letting him watch, trying to still her shaking hands. “What are you in the mood for tonight?”
“I dunno, whatever strikes your fancy.”
Her fingers closed around my clasp, slid me free of the ear. With a tiny movement she twisted my base. A tiny click from within me told her that she had exactly five seconds.
She turned and tossed me toward him in a graceful arc before she ran. His eyes went wide with the realization of what I would bring to him, what I would take away. And then –
